


Everything that I said I'd do

by geoclaire



Series: We've barely just begun [2]
Category: Carmilla (Web Series), Carmilla - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Blood Bank, Cookies, F/F, au fic prompt, but seriously the cookies play a considerable role in this fic, i find random things on the internet to write when i'm stressed at work, it's very important
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 16:43:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4794776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geoclaire/pseuds/geoclaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Laura never did use that phone number, and Carmilla's a little put out by that.</p><p>AKA the one where Laura busts Carmilla stealing blood from the bloodbank.</p><p>(a follow up to the one where Laura's a pizza delivery girl and Carmilla's bored at a goat sacrifice, but bizarrely enough, can stand alone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Everything that I said I'd do

**Author's Note:**

> Have some fluff, creampuffs. Y'all bloody need it.

You’ve had worse ideas than this. You’re nineteen and living away from home and you’ve had heaps of bad ideas in your life. You know you have.

It’s just that right now you’re having trouble thinking of any of them.

The line moves forward, and now you’re like, three from the front and any minute now you’re going to have to decide is this is actually a good idea. Two from the front, and you’re really not sure how invested you are in cookies. Enough to get a pizza delivery job you don’t have time for, sure, but enough to give up your blood? You weigh it up mentally, visualizing tiny scales. Cookies or blood? Blood, or cookies? Your mental image is surprisingly graphic, and also unhelpful.

Someone calls your name, and the person behind you nudges you forward so that you stumble up to the desk. “I’m Laura Hollis,” you confirm, and the woman behind the desk checks your birthdate and allergies and sends you down to the third cubicle.

Okay, yes, apparently you value cookies more than your own blood. Good to know. 

Somewhere, Hermione Granger is telling you to sort out your priorities.

* * *

Your blood donation takes like fifteen minutes. It’d be longer, says the nurse, but they’re only taking three hundred mL from you because “you’re tiny.”

This displeases you to an irrational level, but you check, and you still get the same number of free cookies, so probably you’re okay with it. The nurse takes the needle out and you try to get up, but he puts a weirdly heavy hand on your shoulder and pushes you back down.

“If you get up now, you’re going to faint,” he says. “Give it ten, and we’ll move you into the recovery area.”

Well, that seems reasonable, so you say “Okay,” and lie back.

He leaves you alone, and now you've got nothing to do but lean back in your chair and gaze out the window. You wonder about the window, doesn’t it kind of allow for an invasion of privacy for anyone who walks past? But then again if people can faint, probably it makes sense for the nurses to be able to see straight in.

You hang out for a bit, kicking your feet and thinking about cookies. It’s been a while, you’ve had to cut down your shifts at the pizza house due to session starting back, and it’s had a rapid impact on your finances. And sure, you could hit up your Dad for some cash, but it’s not like you can’t afford rent – just your favourite forms of processed sugar.

You groan a bit, then stop, in case the nurse comes running. But cutting down your shifts had sucked, and for more than one reason. It had ended your cookie fund, but it also meant you were unlikely to get another chance to see Carmilla.

Like, not that that was a key reason in you not wanting to cut down, but…

Ah, crap. You’d met her on a delivery run a month or so back, and you could reasonably say she’d caught your attention. Every time you closed your eyes, you thought you could see her legs in those shorts and the thin lace shirt she wore all over again.

And it wasn't like it was one sided, because you’d caught her attention, judging by the way she’d written (or magicked, or whatever) her number onto your receipt. The way she’d leaned into you, encouraged you to stay… these were not things you expected from a girl who didn’t want to see you again. And you’d hung onto the receipt, had every intention of calling her. Even with the full knowledge that she’d been, for chrissakes, a vampire at a goat sacrificing party. You’d been going to call her.

But you’re you, so it had taken a couple days, maybe, to work up the nerve. And when you had finally pulled that receipt out of your pocket, the number that had been inscribed in such bright red lettering had faded away to nothing. 

Nada, kaput. As though her digits had never been there to begin with.

It feels nastily likely that you've been on the wrong end of the vampire version of ‘gave-a-guy-a-fake-number’.  But holy shit, that seriously doesn’t even make sense. If she hadn’t wanted to give you her number, she didn’t have to. You hadn’t even asked for it, she didn’t need to give you a magical, disappearing phone number.

Unless maybe you were pranked. That seems disappointingly possible at this point. You sigh, and open your eyes.

And for a moment, you think you’re seeing things. Because there is no way, literally no way, you just saw your vampire-possibly-crush disappear into a storeroom at the blood bank of all freaking places. Absolutely not, no way, uh-uh.

But you catch another glimpse as the door swings closed, and holy shit, you could not possibly invent the detailed lace shirt she’s wearing.

You leap to your feet, completely ignoring the nurse’s previous warning. If your vampire crush bait is seriously sneaking around the blood bank while you’re donating blood, you are in no way going to let this go. You’re going to confront her. You’re going to make her admit to manipulating you. You’re going to make her apologise, damnit, for giving you a _disappearing number_ , because honestly who does that?

You open the door to your cubicle, and check both ways before ducking across the hallway, because you certainly don’t want any of the nurses to spot you and insist you go back down. You slip open the door to the storeroom more slowly and slide inside.

Wow, it’s darker inside than you were expecting. You let go of the door frame, and take a few steps further in, peering about. There’s no movement, but she's a vampire, and that means nothing. 

“Carmilla?” you say after a minute. “Carmilla, come on, I saw you come in here.”

The darkness coalesces into something human-like, and now you can kinda see her again. Gee, they sure needed better lighting in here.

“Cutie?” she asks, and you think you see her coming closer, but seriously, it’s hella dark and could it be getting darker? What's that  even about? “What are you doing in here?”

“I’m looking for you, you jerk,” you mean to say, but it comes out as a mumbled “M’lookin’fryoujk,” before you realise the room is going sparkly, and you’re falling.

Wow, vampiric skills are really doing a _number_ on you lately.

* * *

When you wake up, you’re lying down. Someone’s arm is around you, and they’re stroking your hair. It’s pretty nice, and you relax into it, right up til you realise you have no idea where the shit you are and who’s touching you.

You bolt upright, and immediately crack your forehead on the chin of whoever it is holding you.

“Shit FRICK OW,” you blurt, and then you remember to look.

Carmilla is on the couch with you. Holy shit. Carmilla is also holding her chin, and scowling.

“Nice to see you too, cupcake,” she hisses. “Now would you lie back down before someone figures out I’m not meant to be here?”

You edge away from her a little, within the confines of the couch you're apparently lying on. 

“Um, no,” you say, and probably you're freaking out because you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. “Actually, I think that would be an appropriate outcome,” you add, and she’s clearly doing some kind of vampire thing again because once more, she’s greying out in front of you.

“Oh for fuck’s _sakes_ ,” she says, and grabs your wrist before you can escape the couch. “Then can you lie down before you pass out again? I can hear your heartbeat from here.”

You try to yank your hand back, but - waitasecond. Pass out?

Wait _another_ second, pass out  _again_?

Against your better judgement, you let her pull you back onto the bed. Just to prevent fainting, you reason, and you let her reposition her arm around your shoulders and try to pretend you're not enjoying it. The world slowly comes back into focus, pulsing with your sore head. 

Her fingers lightly stroke your forehead, seeming to gather the pain into one point below her cool fingertips before it disperses. You remember to exhale, and she tucks you more closely against her. 

“You fainted in the storeroom,” she murmurs into your ear after a minute, apparently now convinced you're no longer trying to escape. “I didn’t want anyone to ask questions, so I told the nurse I was your girlfriend and that you’d tried to get up too fast.”

“You told the nurse – Oh. Okay,” you say faintly. That explains the couch, and the, well, cuddling. You remember to look up for the first time, and see you’re in what’s probably the recovery room – there’s couches, a water cooler, juice boxes lined up on the bench. No visible cookies, though.

Hang on, though – “What are you even doing at the blood bank? Let alone poking around in the storage rooms?” You accuse. 

Carmilla pulls back to look into your face, incredulous. “I didn't think you'd hit your heard that hard, cutie. Remember the part where I’m a vampire?”

Oh, yeah. Dumb question.  She’s a vampire, she’s… stealing blood, you guess. Not exactly ethical, but not the worst thing she could be doing.

“Not looking for me,” you say, and holy shit because you did not mean to say that and you certainly did not mean to inflect it like a question. Holy fishsticks, what is with your brain around her? Just because her shorts are all tiny and non existent, they seem to make your brain... well, similarly non existent. 

Carmilla stiffens at the question, though, looks almost disappointed when she responds, “I’m not in the habit of chasing down girls who don’t even bother to call, cutie.”

With a face like that, you're sure she isn't, but – wait. What?

“Hang on, _you’re_ the one who gave me a disappearing phone number!” you retort. But you regret it immediately, because it’s bad enough you got a fake phone number without her knowing that it hurt your feelings. So you keep talking, trying to distract her, “And why do you keep calling me that?”

She scowls at you from six inches away, her hand never leaving its slow stroking of your face and hair.

“You never so much as told me your name, creampuff. What the hell else am I going to call you?”

You scowl right back, still held tightly against her side. Her arm is cool, but in a pleasant way that you find you prefer to how cuddling normally makes you feel sweaty. Her lace shirt is prickling a bit against your bare skin above your tank top, and a strand of her hair is hanging loose between your faces. You reach up and touch it with a finger. God, but she’s pretty. Even when she's glaring at you, the line of her jaw and the cut of her nose are impeccable. 

Sweet baby jesus on a pogo stick, you must be so freaking blood deficient to be this lightheaded and ditzy right now.

“Laura,” you say after a minute.

She stares at you, her expression turning softer, and you move your finger from her loose curl to her jawline.

You’re dizzy, you justify, and let your finger trace along the edge of her jaw. “My name is Laura, and you still gave me a fake number.”

She rolls her eyes, but doesn’t pull away. If anything, her arm tightens a little.

“If I wanted to give you a fake number, cu –  _Laura_  – I wouldn’t have given you one at all.”

“Okay, I get that, but I tried to call you and it had faded totally away –“ you start to argue, and she shakes her head, interrupting you.

“It only fades after three days, cutie. More than long enough to call, if you were going to.”

Okay, so probably that’s fair enough in most situations, but seriously has she seen her own face?  And also, she’s her, all vampire long limbs and fantastic hair and horrendously good bone structure, and you’re, well, you. You feel like you should be allowed some extra time. Like a run up to a long jump, you clearly need one more than, say, Danny. Why are you thinking about Danny right now, Laura? Jesus.

You pout a little. “Maybe some of us just needed a little more time,” you say, and she shrugs.

“I think we’re on a deadline here, cupcake, they’re gonna need the couch back in a minute.”

“That is  _not_  what I –”

Your hand is still on her jaw when she kisses you. You could use it to push her away, but you cannot think of a good reason you would do that.

Her lips are very, very soft, and her mouth is very warm. She uses her hand in your hair to pull you closer, her lips pressing firmly into yours and sliding in a way best described as delicious. You open your mouth without meaning to, and she immediately takes advantage, flicking her tongue against your lower lip before very slowly biting down. 

You shiver, and she edges away. You trace her jawline with your thumb, gazing up into her face.

“About that phone number,” you say.

She licks her lower lip. Her tongue is very close to both your thumb and your face, and you watch intently.

“Yes?”

“Maybe this time you could just put it in my phone.”

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me at geoclaire.tumblr.com for fic, feminism, and my dorky dog.
> 
> Also, I'm working on the heavily requested follow up to _I held you up and held me in_ , the agoraphobic Carmilla fic, but that takes time. Follow me for updates, or just enjoy some bizarre fluff.


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